


Perhaps the Better Claim

by seperis



Series: Two Paths [3]
Category: Smallville
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, M/M, Romance, hurt-comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-11-18
Updated: 2002-11-18
Packaged: 2017-11-01 07:57:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/354071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seperis/pseuds/seperis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to "Bent in the Undergrowth".  Responsibility isn't what he's used to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Perhaps the Better Claim

**Author's Note:**

> Isilya for the idea and comments. Jack, per usual, for the title. Beth for the damn series that's pretty much obsessing me. Gah to you all.

It's--waiting. 

Black rainbows are drawn in glossy, oil-slick puddles, an alley no Luthor born would have soiled his shoes in. The thick, rich smell of decay from the dumpster to his left wafts over him, and he grabs on with one gloved hand before giving up, finding rough, broken concrete with his knees and vomiting whatever's still in his stomach. It's a technicolor marvel of alcohol and bile painted yellow swirling in bright red. Blood, maybe, stomach lining shot to hell. He watches it like a slow-motion video, more fascinating than anything he can possibly imagine. 

The less mind-fucking version of an acid trip, perhaps. 

Dawn's rising, grey-gold just up the alley, stretching long, slow fingers toward him. It probably says something about him that he retreats, wiping his mouth with one strangely-gloved hand--did he wear them all night?--closing his eyes against the shot of pain that clings to his temples like dirt. 

On his knees again when his stomach gives up, and he doesn't watch this time. 

Just where a Luthor belongs, he can almost hear Jonathan Kent say, and if there is anyone, _anyone_ , he shouldn't be conjuring up at six in the morning, it's Jonathan. Who can do disapproval as beautifully and painfully by imaginary proxy as in person. Just fucking wonderful. 

His legs don't want to hold him--pressing his hand into the damp ground, he leans sideways into the wall, cool against the heat of his skin. Just this bizarre impulse to rub up against it for a little while, scrape all that sensitive, painful skin away, straight down to raw, bare bone. Probably won't help with the headache, but anything's possible. 

The taste in his mouth's a combination of--a lot of things. Running his tongue over his teeth, he catches the copper of blood and faint powder-bland of semen, acid edge of bile and sharp liquor. It's amazing. He could spend all day sitting here, cold and safe, alone, in the shadow of the dumpster and explore every one, mark every memory. Vodka shots and apple martinis, a blowjob in the stall of that bathroom and the fuck after--his body remembers that, a dull ache on the cusp of active pain, but he's just a little too wiped to take it seriously. 

Something's damaged, he's almost sure. 

He can't stay here all day, though. At least in theory, since he's never applied himself to discovering whether alleys really do make great places for daytime residence, though he supposes if any vagrants wander by, he could certainly take a poll. 

Somewhere in the back of his mind is a memory--brilliant light and too-loud music and dancing. Sixteen and twenty-two might be a lifetime apart, but the feeling's the same, before, during, and after. The perfection of simple movement, no thinking, no breathing, nothing outside himself but--but him. In this. No matter who you're with, you're always alone in your body. 

The echo of an ache in his thighs makes him wonder how long he was in there. The catwalk had stretched what felt like miles above the main floor, and he's been scared of heights until today--tonight. Wrapped in cheap vinyl and pure adrenaline and warm, human bodies, he's never felt so free. 

Both hands against the wall, Lex gets to his feet, breathing out carefully. Angry clenching of his stomach, and the drugs are fading too fast, reminding him of every bruise, every overextended muscle, every breath in a raw throat. 

It's full dawn, and Lex shuts his eyes against it. 

He needs to get home. 

* * *

Clark's asleep on the couch when Lex walks in--he's careful with the door, closing it lightly, but Clark's already into deep sleep and that, Lex knows from experience, is just on this side of comatose. 

Unnervingly perfect, curled up under a throw blanket--there's a half-empty cup of coffee on the floor, an empty cellophane bag of chips beside it. The TV's on but on low, and Lex can tell by Clark's position that he didn't mean to fall asleep at all. 

Cold reality is better for sobriety than anything ever invented. Lex leans into the doorway of the living room, feeling--very old. Too old for this room, this pretty boy, this kind of faith, the kind that assumed that Lex would be home at a reasonable hour after doing something innocuous, like a dinner out or simple, casual sex. There's a second coffee cup on the coffee table and Lex's favorite pretzels beside it. Their routine, in a weird, kind of parallel-universe way that still makes Lex feel lightheaded. Saturday nights, B-movies, and junk food. Talking like they're at the castle, like the simple friends that they aren't at any other time 

He likes that. Loves it, even, in a way that he can't quite understand--maybe not even admit. Never spoken, never crystallized by uncomfortable or awkward words, just the simple, clean knowledge that this is what they do, no matter what happens the rest of the week, no matter who they are otherwise. 

Lex had been drunk by ten tonight, high by midnight. Dance-fucking on a catwalk less than thirty minutes later, music in his blood, no thought, no memory, no past, no future. 

No responsibility. 

Clark was curled up in an old blanket in front of the television, wondering where Lex was tonight. 

Two steps into the room--hard wood floors, scattered with rugs, a strangely homey feeling that makes the backs of Lex's knees itch, his palms sweat beneath his gloves. Too comfortable. Too--something. It's not natural, can't be, not for him. 

Clark makes a soft sound, freezing Lex in place, before kicking at the blanket and rolling more firmly onto his side, arms tucked up warm against his chest. His forehead's furrowed, like he's thinking unhappy thoughts. Maybe wondering where Lex is even in his dreams. Maybe not. Sweats and his favorite t-shirt, a faded red that's seen too many washings because Clark doesn't sleep without it. 

Failure, Lex thinks, crouching slowly by the couch, ignoring the strain of thighs protesting and his ass flare up in reminder--a vicious, unhappy reminder of the reasons why. Why tonight, why this, why so much, why he's trying to relive sixteen like he's still that stupid, rebellious kid who didn't think of anyone but himself. 

Who didn't have anyone he _needed_ to think of. Who didn't need to remember to make sure the menu included fried chicken every week, that there was always plenty of milk on hand, that school nights were nine o'clock and the chemistry teacher had sent a note about the class project's due date. Who didn't run background checks on half the fucking town before he let Clark start school, different haircut, different name, different clothes, amazing what a few weeks with Lex will do to someone. Too-pretty, sophisticated urban refugee replacing the rural farmboy, right down to vocabulary and practiced mannerisms. They'd worked on that for months. Clark's own parents might not recognize him. 

But. That's all gloss and flash, no substance, peeled away like cheap paint to the real thing. Hair a mess, dressed down, Lex's careful lessons in appearance nixed, he's Clark again. The kid he sat outside a burning house with, the boy who sometimes climbs into his bed, nothing sexual, not for Clark, and Lex won't let it be for himself. Just needing. Contact. Something grounding. For someone who's lost everything, and Lex can't count the times he's woken up to feel Clark inches away across soft cotton sheets. Fingers just short of Lex, like he can't touch without full consent. 

How many times Lex has rolled over, close enough for Clark to reach. Going to sleep with Clark's touch burning into his skin. 

There's a sickening urge to apologize. Clark deserves so much better than this. 

Pushing away from the couch, years of practice make him perfectly silent, padding on filthy boots down the hall, up the stairs. Passing some artwork he'd brought with him from Metropolis, things Clark had liked--rural scenes of farmland, some Monet that had fascinated Clark from the moment he'd seen them in some art book on the table, face caught in nostalgic memory. 

Lex's room is to the left--very impersonal, Lex thinks, looking at it clinically as he pulls off his filthy jacket, dropping it over a chair. He's already used to the smell, but he can see the alcohol stains on it, the white slashes across that are--other things. Black doesn't hide a lot of sins. 

Gritting his teeth, Lex pushes through the cheery white door into the bathroom. He's young, rich, urban, and he's living in a comfortably rural farmhouse--remodeled, true, and those long weeks he still shudders over, remembering Clark watching the builders work, every second. The additions for Lex's office and expansion, constant noise driving Lex outside more often than he liked to think about. Riding for _hours_ to escape the sounds, but no, not just that. Escape Clark, maybe, and he doesn't like to think about that but it doesn't make it any less true. 

A single glance at the mirror stops him short--and he shouldn't have looked, but there's always that fascination to know how far you've fallen. Purple-yellow staining one temple, a smear of blood by his swollen mouth, an obvious split lip. Bloodshot blue eyes watch him mockingly from dark-circled eyes. His clothes--better not to think about it, and he pulls off the shirt, throwing it across the bathroom toward the hamper, but not quite in. Only fit for the garbage now, and he's glad he's wearing gloves, because he's not sure he could stand touching himself now. Rainbows of yellow-green-violet like fingerpaints, the unmistakable imprint of sharp teeth where they broke the skin, and the fading track marks up the interior of one arm. He heals fast, but not nearly fast enough for Clark not to see. 

This, Lex thinks clinically, is the man Martha Kent trusted her only child to. Jesus. 

"Lex?" Sleepy voice stopped just outside his door--a polite boy who always knocks before entering private space, and Lex breathes a thanks to a God he's not sure he entirely believes in before grabbing for a robe. The sudden movement strains every muscle, making him hiss out something shocked, God, what was he _thinking_ , he's not sixteen anymore, he's not this _person_ , and Clark-- 

"Lex?" Coming in--Clark heard that, of course, and the worry is rich in his voice. The soft bare-footed steps pause outside the not-quite-closed door, and Lex turns just in time to see Clark gently press it in. "Lex, are you--" 

The words stop at the first sight--hazel eyes growing wide and green, Lex examined in one look, and while he can't guess everything, the generalized impression is enough. There's a flicker that could be hurt or a flip to x-ray, Lex isn't sure, but he does let the robe drop, straightening with a painful effort. 

"Sorry," Clark mumbles, taking a step back, and Lex wonders what his face is showing. Guilt or blank, he's not sure because Clark's good at reading him and getting better daily. "I--um--do you want breakfast?" 

The very idea of food turns Lex's stomach over, and he sucks in a breath. Clark--flushes, no other word, a spread of delicate red from hairline down to the collar of his shirt and below. 

"I'll--um. Going to make breakfast." And Clark's gone--faster than the eye can ever follow, one of Clark's tricks that fascinate and frustrate Lex by turn. He and Clark won't talk about this--they don't _do_ that, and God, it's good being male and Luthor, because that's the one thing men don't do. Don't apologize (for _what_?), don't explain, just brush it neatly under the carpet like any other trash and stomp on it until it lies flat. 

It's a good philosophy, and Lex would be more fond of it if he wasn't standing in the middle of the bathroom, soaked with the smells and touches of other people. 

The shower's only good for getting rid of the physical--skin scrubbed until it smarts, blood welling sluggishly from half-healed cuts, and his back stings. The marks of someone's fingernails, he thinks, breathing through another unwelcome memory that still makes his cock twitch in memory. Too sensitive still, and sore as hell. Vague flashes of short dark hair between his fingers and chanting her--his?--someone's name, breathing tight and fast, and that's sex for him, always has been. Pure body and feeling, no faces to remember, nothing but feeling. 

Wrapped in a towel, Lex ignores the mirror, going back out into his bedroom. The door is shut tight--no Clark in evidence, though he can almost feel the residual traces of his presence, non-accusatory, non-judgmental, accepting because, well, it's not like he has a _choice_. Bound by two promises, and Clark takes promises seriously. So sure, the only person in his life can slut his way through the city at will any old time he pleases and put them both in danger as much as he likes. 

Great, great protector you are, Lex. 

He dresses automatically--long sleeves, high collar, thank God it's autumn because the maximum-coverage look would really stand out in summer, and it would be obvious he's hiding something. Not that it isn't obvious now, even to Lex, and he grabs socks and forgets shoes. It's Sunday, and he doesn't have any appearances to keep up. Besides the help that comes through three times a week to do the cleaning and laundry, they don't get a lot of visitors. Lex's rule, inflexible and unbreakable, and that Clark accepted it without a murmur was either a sign of that incredibly misplaced trust or maybe simple inevitability. It's not like Clark has options to argue with here. 

This is power, Lex. Just in case you weren't aware what it's really like to have someone's entire life resting in your hands. Here's your reminder. Enjoy. 

Vaguely nauseated, Lex pushes open the bedroom door. Coffee, thank God, the smell drifting upstairs and curling around him like a warm coat. It brings him upright, Pavlovian-style, down the hall and into the kitchen faster than he probably would have chosen to go alone, and Clark's sitting at the kitchen bar on a bright white kitchen stool, a book, a bowl of oatmeal, and a glass of milk before him. Thoughtful boy left him a cup and the sugar and cream, neatly placed beside a spoon, ready for use. 

Any morning, it seems to say. You didn't just come in thirty minutes ago stinking of clubs and drugs and frantic, casual, degrading sex with multiple, faceless partners. Not at all. It's a pretty fiction that he's the responsible adult here, who can be trusted not to make a mistake, lose control while too high to know his own name, slip up and say something stupid under the influence. 

Something stupid, something dangerous. 

"Morning," Lex says, sitting down and picking up the coffee pot. Clark flashes him an impossibly bright smile--well rested teenage boy having breakfast in a sunny kitchen. Relentlessly sane. 

"I'm going with Missy and Steven to the horse show after lunch," Clark says, glancing up from beneath a fall of damp, tangled bangs. He needs another haircut, Lex thinks clinically, taking a long drink of coffee. Clark Kent is in this room right now. 

"What time will you be home?" It's not that surreal a conversation, or shouldn't be. Lex has signed a report card recently and a permission slip for a field trip. He's not entirely sure how he managed that yet without some sort of chemical assistance. 

"By five." 

"Take the car." Lex doesn't trust either Missy or Steve to drive anywhere. Steve took six tries to get his license. Yes, that's in a file in his office. There's a scary level of normality to running background checks on Clark's friends. 

"Okay." And yes, there's that perfectly normal excitement still. Clark's the only kid in his class--hell, probably in the damn state--that drives a BMW to school. There are compromises and then there are absolutes, and Lex just can't handle domestic automobiles. No one would expect it of a Luthor or a Luthor's ward. Period and end. 

The silence should be comfortable--probably is, on Clark's part, because Lex is very, very good at guilting himself where Clark would never do so. Yes, Lex, drink your coffee like a good, responsible adult. Later, go check Clark's homework. Go riding. Go--do whatever it is plant managers do when their kids are out-- 

He doesn't start laughing, but only because hysterics aren't appropriate during mealtimes. 

Jesus. No fucking _wonder_ Jonathan Kent looked so stressed all the time. Lex breathes a quiet apology to a man he hasn't seen in almost six months for every single time he had a unkind thought--and wow, that's a list from hell. Shaking his head, Lex finishes the cup and pours another one. He'll sleep while Clark's gone, catch on some paperwork from the plant--not that he isn't pretty much the epitome of caught up already, what with his severe lack of an actual, regular social life. The plant is doing disturbingly well. Dad, should he note it, will doubtless try to sabotage this, too. Well, let him try. This time, Lex has a few back-ups in place. 

"Your dad called last night." 

Clark can't read his mind. He can't. 

"Fuck." And almost bites his tongue when Clark looks up. "Did you answer the phone?" 

The look on Clark's face is confused at best. "Yeah. You--" 

Breathe, Lex. "Did he say anything--" Of course Dad would call the one time that Clark was alone at home and Lex wasn't there to run interference. Of course he would. It might almost be deliberate, except Lex already knows who Dad's spies are at the plant and knows how to work around them pretty easily. Nothing quite like paranoia to really teach you the meaning of a thorough grasp of intelligence on the enemy. 

Clark's head tilted, the flush faint but there. He's getting better at controlling it. "He didn't say anything--outright." Of course not. Dad's all for the subtle approach. Innuendo that Lex can't even begin to fix, because that would lead to actual questions. It's a lesser evil for Lionel to assume the worst of Lex. Safer. And uncomfortable as hell for Clark, no question. The school might accept the carefully-crafted backstory--hell, even the town is pretty good with it for the most part--but Dad never would. He's drawn his own conclusions. 

And Lex has worked to make sure he keeps them. It's an extremely unclean thought for a very clean kitchen and a very clean boy. 

"What did he want?" Lex is actually curious, in a morbidly-fascinated sort of way. 

"To see how school was going. See how you liked the plant. He's going to be down in a week or so, I think." Clark's getting very, very good at figuring out Lionel's patterns. Right. Great. Dad in the house. Domestic harmony shot to hell. So many things this town has going for it, most powerfully the fact Dad is a three hour plane ride away. At best. Not as likely to drop in for the hell of it. "It was pretty short. He sounded busy." 

Great, just great. "This will be interesting." Looking at his cup, Lex wonders if Clark will notice if he spikes it. A roll of his stomach discourages the thought before Lex can get beyond vague theory. 

"Lex, you okay?" Lex looks up at very dark, worried eyes--eyes that just recently saw him at his absolute worst in the bathroom, eyes that pretty much have a lock on Lex's conscience, and Clark doesn't _need_ to say anything, ever. I trust you, Lex, they seem to say. You would never do anything to put me in danger. Ever. 

"Long night." It's been an act of pure will to sit this still on the hard wooden stool--any twitch would give everything away--at least, everything that Clark hasn't pretty much guessed already. Sighing, he wraps both hands around the coffee mug. "Clark--" 

"Have a good time?" There's a playful note to Clark's voice--and Lex imagines briefly what Clark must think he was doing. Maybe nowhere in his imagination is what passed for entertainment last night, even with the physical evidence right in front of him. There's this sick, almost irresistible urge to tell him--spell it out in crude, raw words, the facts of Lex's life. I fucked and got fucked, Clark, and I was so high I could have spilled everything without much effort at all and you'd be in a lab by now. I did it in public and in private and I shot up while I did it. And that's just the start. This is who you've got, kid. Feel better? 

The words don't come, though. Lex's tongue freezes before he can even shape the first one. 

"It was okay." Looking down at his cup, Lex hears his voice like something disembodied. "I think I'm too old to enjoy the club route these days." 

When he looks up, he catches--something. Something that flickers bright and brilliant, completely indefinable, gone beneath dark eyelashes and hidden by a stare down at an empty bowl. 

"You're not that old." When Clark looks up again, it's gone, whatever the hell it was. "I'm going to go check the horses." Farmboy through and through--Lex never would have guessed how much Clark likes routine rural chores. Needs them, even. Lex only has a part-time staff for the stables. Clark likes to do most of it himself. Some way to hold onto himself, maybe. "I'll do the dishes when I get back." Neatly stacking up the bowl, glass, and cup, Clark turns away, putting them in the sink before walking out, old jeans and long-sleeve t-shirt, stopping at the hall closet for his coat, like any kid going out for his usual domestic chores. Like home, Lex thinks suddenly, watching him walk out the door into the crisp autumn morning. Feed the horses, check the tack. Groom them, maybe go for a ride and look at the fields. Jonathan Kent's son might not have loved farming, but it's as much a part of him as anything else, and this close to the land, he needs to feel it in some way Lex can't really completely understand. 

When the door closed, Lex pushed the cup aside and dropped his forehead to the smooth, polished wood. 

He needs sleep. Badly. 

* * *

Lunch is quiet--Clark, dressed prep-boy chic, pulling in the pieces of his identity by inches, forming the person the town sees. Just so strange still--two long, impossibly difficult months of constant drilling in Metropolis between meetings and work and delegation, trying to teach Clark how to be a new person entirely. Clothing and habits, word and thought. 

"Your name," Lex had asked, remorselessly, hours after they both should have been asleep, crosslegged on his bed, door locked, help dismissed for the night. 

"David Usher." 

"Parents?" 

"Abroad. Problems in school." Clark had made a face at that. There's a juvenile record in Metropolis with that name on it--Lex left nothing to chance. "Sent here. You agreed as a business concession and favor to family friends." 

"Age." 

"Seventeen." Jump his age a year. It had just seemed like a good idea at the time. 

"Sports." 

"Don't do them." The edge of resentment had been rather comforting. "Swimming, non-competitive. Fencing." Lex had been teaching him. An excellent way to vent. 

"Siblings." 

"Don't have any. Only child. Adopted." Keep reality and fantasy entwined well enough for Clark not to slip too much. 

"Good enough." Keep it minimal, always good. People wouldn't ask questions that they thought they already knew the answers to. 

Across from him, Clark's picking at his sandwich. Something's obviously on his mind. 

"Clark?" Newspaper set aside--Lex hasn't been able to read a word of it anyway. The low-grade headache's strong enough to kill anything like concentration. Clark pushes his bowl aside, almost untouched. "Is something wrong?" 

"No. Not--" Clark stops, head tilted down in thought. When he looks up, very green eyes meet Lex's. "Missy asked me out. On a date." Ah, well, clarification is good. "Um. You know. For this Friday." 

Well, the girls in this town are a hell of a lot brighter than the ones in Smallville. Lex has seen and heard enough around town to be aware no one _doesn't_ notice Clark. Not entirely comfortable knowledge, either, and Lex looks quietly forward to a lifetime of feeling like this. 

Instinct reacts and says no. Bad idea, though for the life of him, Lex can't figure out why. Missy's from a nice family--her father works at the plant directly under Lex's eye, her mother's the town's only CPA, and she's not only smart, she's just the type of small-town pretty to appeal to any red blooded American boy. Ideal for Clark, really. 

Lex won't say the dark hair and honey-colored skin don't remind him of another young woman of both their acquaintance, though. Clark is nothing if not relentlessly consistent. 

"Okay." There's no reason to say no and every reason to say yes--Clark's gone this long being perfectly capable of handling interpersonal relationships without making mistakes, so no good reason why this would be any different. And no good reason at all to limit Clark's social life. Be reasonable, Lex. You can't actually lock him in a glass case for private display purposes only. Give him the normal life you took away. With better cars. 

He expects the relief, but the something else flickers again--and Lex wishes, futiley, that he knew where that was coming from. Gone again, and dammit, what _is_ that? 

"Great." Glancing at the clock, Clark stands up, shifting a little when he finds his feet and grabbing the sunglasses and wallet off the table. With a little grin, he's gone out the back door, off to be a normal teenager with a pretty girl. 

The clatter of the spoon brings him back to the kitchen, and Lex stands up, pushing his half-empty bowl aside, forgetting the sandwich. Up the stairs two at a time, his jacket from last night glaring at him from the chair, an accusation and a reminder and the kind of addiction Lex has never had to resist in his life. Take this, be this, isn't it so much easier, Lex? His fingers brush lightly across the soiled surface. Come away with the scent of his own personal kind of freedom clinging to his skin. 

This is who you _are_ , Lex thinks, staring down at the ruined leather. He could buy thousands and never notice the expense, soft, expensive material he can treat like garbage--why bother getting it clean when it'll never be perfect again? Why bother even trying? 

He needs sleep and he needs--maybe a break. A week away. Hong Kong again, and he shuts his eyes in memory. 

Last night had been-- 

"I can't do this." Fuck you, Martha Kent, you can't hold me responsible for doing the right thing. You can't. No one can. This house, this place, this eerie domesticity and that damn boy going happily off to be normal as best he can, no parents, no family, nothing to keep him safe, what the _fuck_ were you thinking? 

The knock of knuckles on wood brings him upright, jerking away from the leather like it burns. 

"Mr. Luthor? Lex?" 

Lex goes through the list of names in his head on his way down the stairs. Cathy Marks, the woman who runs the bakery. Elizabeth Staton, who's married to the football coach. No, he has an idea already, opening the door on dark blue eyes and a fall of dark hair, secret smile from full lips. Missy's mother. 

Stepmother, he amends, feeling the practiced smile slide across his face. Maybe six years his senior, certainly not less, irreproachable in jeans and a red flannel shirt. Riding boots. 

"Rachel." She smiles again, showing an enormous amount of teeth. He's been waiting for this visit since their first meeting at the plant only a month before. "What do I owe the pleasure?" 

Sex. Husband running the factory today, pesky stepdaughter out with Lex's ward. Yes, this isn't planned at all. Stepping back, the scent of hay and some cheap perfume from the drugstore washes over him as she comes inside. She's not subtle at all, he thinks, but he's never gone in for subtle. Shutting the door, he watches her slow turn. 

"I thought we could go riding," she says slowly, like she's tasting every word. Her eyes linger on the faded bruise at his temple--by nightfall it will probably be gone. "Not many people have studied dressage." 

"I've had an extensive education," Lex answers. The words are smooth and automatic, no need to even work at this. "Can I get you something to drink?" 

"I'm fine." She takes a step closer--pretense be damned here. He likes that, too. Her hands are hard--years on horseback, leather exposure, manicured nails that cut through his shirt and into the fading marks on his back. His cock's interested, like he didn't fuck himself into near-catatonia the night before. She tastes like coffee and wind, and she feels even better. Full breasts, no bra beneath that incredibly soft flannel, pulling the material free of her jeans. 

A quick turn to lock the door, and Lex smiles, slow and careful, watching her breath catch, loving the way she flushes, hairline down. 

"Let's go somewhere more comfortable." 

No, no pretending he's anything but what he is. Someone who's perfectly comfortable fucking an employee's much-younger wife. 

His room's dark--blinds and curtains drawn, but his vision's better than good, so no problems. He undresses her carefully, unveiling flawless golden skin, like melting caramel, just as soft. Silky-smooth taste to her, shoulder and the soft parts of her wrists and her breasts. He's murmuring thing against her skin--automatic things that he's used a thousand times before but no one ever notices, of course they don't. He's good at this. She stretches out on his bed, an offering, barely blinking as he strips off his shirt, her mouth finding every bruise and sucking them new and bright, and he's on his back, moaning softly into the ceiling when she straddles him, condom slid on by a soft, skilled mouth, then, pushing him inside her. 

Hot and tight and wet, sex this mindless force that takes over. He doesn't know what name she's saying and doesn't care. Could fall in love with her voice, low and curiously rough, spanning her waist with his hands and forcing her faster. Harder. Slow country fucks be damned, sweat's standing up on both their skin, slicking them together, and he kisses her and tastes need. 

Rolls her on her back and takes over--God, yes. Long, slim, strong legs locked around his waist, her hands closed tight over the headboard, head thrown back so he can taste her throat. Don't mark, something in him that doesn't belong reminds him. Not good to have a husband trying to kill you. Dangerous, Lex, this is more dangerous than last night. It's almost enough to make him use his teeth, leave bruises high on her jaw, her neck. Somewhere she can't ever hide it from anyone. Not her husband, her stepdaughter, Clark. 

"Jesus," he whispers, pushing harder, almost shocked by the rush of heat from the very thought. Orgasm is glittering and bright just out of reach, and he's driving them both. She's almost screaming, heels pushed deep into his back and she comes with a full body shudder that snaps Lex into the here and now. 

Coming liquid fast and seeing stars, he catching himself on his elbows, breathing hard. The wash of scent, sex and sweat, like a smothering blanket. 

Rolling away, he stares at the ruined jacket on the chair and wonders how much farther he can fall. 

the end 


End file.
